Tag Archives: Facebook

Hey does anyone know the number for the take-out place down the road? No? Fuck. Maybe you know the movie schedule for Friday? Perhaps someone would be kind enough to answer for me what “Google” is, or better yet, tell my fucking wife.

Pardon that rude introduction to this blog. It was rude only because I’m at my wits end. Some of you, well a few of you anyway – OK, probably none of you – have to deal on a daily basis with a technophobe. If I’m somehow mistaken and you do have a spouse like mine, you have my sympathy and we should start a support group.

Hello, my name is Beers and my significant other thinks Tumblr is used for drying the laundry.

It’s fucking driving me insane.

As some of you remember, I bought my wife an iPhone 5 and WOW was she excited. Her old phone was manufactured by cavemen, had a battery life measured in seconds and weighed as much as the Apollo 9 space capsule. The new phone has unlimited calls and text messages to the U.S. and that shit excites her. She and her daughter can be “Chatty Cathys” all the live-long day and that’s “fucking awesome,” I’m told.

Seriously, with what is arguably one of the best smart phones on the planet today, she’s still no technically wiser than understanding that ; plus ) equals a winky face.

I had to explain what ROTFL meant to her yesterday. If you don’t know what that means than please leave the internet right now.

I recently received the following “instant message” from my wife

“Can you look up the community bank hours and tell me when they open?”

Now I shouldn’t bitch, prior to the iPhone purchase the concept of an IM would have been the equivalent of landing a man on the sun for her. Text messages were what all those damned kids were doing to “sex-up all their friends” on Friendster and MySpace. So the very fact that she can now text at all is a vast, vast improvement.

But for fuck’s sake, that message was 14 words long. By simply opening whatever shitty browser Apple shoves down our collective throats and typing “community bank hours (city name)” into the fucking search bar the answer would’ve magically appeared. When I suggested that the aforementioned method is really faster than asking me to do it (on an inferior phone, no less), I’m accused of being an asshole.

The emoticon that would convey the eye roll I just did doesn’t exist. It will never exist. It cannot exist. It was an epic eye roll.

This is the second example.

During a brief period of unemployment after retiring from the U.S. Army in 2009 my wife became acquainted with Facebook. I was proud of her. She never once sent me a Farmville request to water her marijuana plants or whatever the fuck it is Farmville players do, but rather made a few witty comments here and there and did the general shit we all do on Facebook. “So glad you had a good birthday,” and “the baby looks so cute” or the occasional, “Sorry about the penis cancer.” I mean, she got it. She avoided the bullshit that we’ve all occasionally succumbed to on Facebook. You know what I mean — click here to see who unfriended you (you fuckers), find out about the 18+ Facebook, and grow a larger penis in just two weeks — the type of crap we’ve all clicked on. You’ve clicked on that shit too, right? I’ll just assume you have.

Anyway, she picked up a job a few short weeks later and from then on Facebook could go fuck itself. Her hours of free time shrunk back to normal and Facebook died when matched against her desire to watch American Idol.

Fast forward to the new iPhone 5 purchase and the installation of the Facebook app. Just days after its purchase I get a concerned look from my wife.

“Honey, can I talk to you,” she asked almost in tears. “Why are so many people mad at me on Facebook? Why are they posting mean things about me, about me being negative and mean?”

This weird question, and you’re all thinking the same thing, is the equivalent of her asking me why dinosaurs had sex with Elvis Presley on the White House lawn. I mean, she hadn’t been on Facebook for more than four years if you discount the occasional quick check to make sure I wasn’t posting photos of my testicles willy-nilly.

I looked at her with confusion. I didn’t really check her status that much anymore because her last update was literally July 16, 2010. She’s my wife on Facebook and, this is the odd part, also in real life. I get notified when she farts on Facebook. Who the fuck was saying negative shit about her? I was failing miserably as a husband for not bringing to bear my considerable 74 Facebook friends to e-beat the fuck out of whoever the fucktard was that was talking shit about my wife on Facebook!

Still though, it made no sense. In order to have an interaction on Facebook you have to, well, interact on Facebook. As a guy who’s been called an asshole many, many times on Facebook, trust me, I know this fact.

“Honey, show me what you mean,” I finally said.

Yep. It’s personal.

She pulled out her phone, opened the Facebook app and showed me. I know I didn’t laugh, but I kind of chucked a bit.

You know all that shit you (we) all post? The meme’s about, “If all you have are negative people in your life blah, blah?” or “Mean people are <insert retarded Facebook meme here>”? She — I’m not kidding — literally thought people were posting that about her. It was just her normal Facebook feed.

This is the most brilliant thing posted on Facebook in at least the last six months.

It was drawn by a friend from high school and posted to Facebook with the following message:

“I got paddled and suspended for drawing this work of art with a friend in the third grade. Can you believe I would do something like this? Me?”

The message was followed by an invitation to use the drawing for my blog.

As if I could resist. How a sad-puppy photo can generate hundreds of thousands of likes, and this – dare I say it – this “masterpiece,” only warrants eight likes and a few dozen comments, is beyond me.

Art is truly dead, I say. Look at the damn thing if you don’t believe me. Its got wieners everywhere! The only thing that prevents me from asking for a signed copy to hang is the man cave is it lacks boobs. Had it been boobiful, in addition to dickalicious, I‘m certain it would be in the Louvre right at this very moment.

The omission is understandable, however. We were in the third grade then. Girls had cooties and we had no clue boobies were a favorite pastime of older brothers and/or fathers.

LOOK at it again and recognize a THIRD GRADER created it. Its awesomeness overflows the boundaries of the page, I tell you.

Now, I want to talk about TV and how much I suck at it, because I suck at it very much.

I have a TV. I’m not some retarded hipster drinking a PBR and wearing hipster clothes, claiming I don’t have a TV. I don’t even have glasses, prescribed or not. I like news far, far, far too much to not have a TV.

It’s all the other TV that I suck at. Literally, every other bit of it. Name the show and I’ve never seen it, don’t care to see it, don’t know what it’s about and don’t know who’s in it. I suck.

I can stomach some Mythbusters on occasion, I like that Bear Grylls survival show because I like being prepared for situations I’ll never find myself in, and Tosh.O.

Other than that, I suck.

And I’m not talking about those retarded “Who Wants to be Americas Next flash-in-the-pan Celebrity Sensation” or the completely, obviously scripted, “reality” shows like Storage Wars (you realize that they literally put the expensive stuff in the storage locker before the show right?). Those shows are shit and all of us know it.

I mean the good stuff that I can’t fucking get into.

What the fuck happened to me? Was a dropped as a child? I must have been. Damn you Mom (or Dad, could’ve been Dad)!

The last “series” I actually watched was Rome. Rome ended in what, 2008? See I suck.

At this very moment my wife and some house guests are eating up some Breaking Bad. I was asked, begged even, to participate. Hooks were tossed into my pond with tasty worms on them. “It’s really your kind of show,” my wife said. “I know you would love this,” said the guests and I probably would have if I …

… If I gave a fuck. It’s not just Breaking Bad either, sadly. I know there is a lot of quality stuff out there that I should like, but I, and this gets very scientific, can’t be asses enough to care. I probably should care. Good stories are good stories. Good writing is good writing. I just can’t be bothered to watch anything. Because, again, I suck.

This character flaw makes me useless at water-cooler talk (even more so when you realize I don’t follow sports. I’m doubly retarded.)

Boss: Hey Todd did you catch the game last night?

Me: There was a game on last night?

Boss: Yeah there was. Hey did you watch (great cool show here)?

Me: Totally didn’t see that either.

Boss: Well, small talk is over.

Me: Damn it!

I used to worry my disinterest would leave me barren in the blogging department, but after this stellar contribution, I realize I can blog about nothing.

“Hit like or God smites a puppy with a hot curling iron on a farm in Wisconsin in 2.3 seconds, 2.2 seconds, 2.1 seconds, 2.0 seconds, 1.9 seconds,” or some such shit.

Yeah yeah, I’ve bitched about Facebook before, and will again, but I only do it because it’s easy it’s the patriotic thing to do. If I don’t bitch about Facebook the terrorists win.

Also, that whole “If you don’t do X, the terrorists win,” thing is over right? How about crossing out words that show what you truly mean? Is that okay still? I heard it was over, but I can’t be sure.

I can’t keep this shit straight.

But yeah Facebook, fucking Facebook, here we are again with me bitching about Facebook.

I’m to blame, I know this. I do know that if I wasn’t such a friends whore this wouldn’t be an issue. But I am a friends whore because currently it’s pretty much the only way this blog gets read (from my Facebook feed, I mean). So that means if you ask to be my Facebook buddy on the first date, I’ll say, “Hell to the YES!”

You’ll also catch a virus, but that’s what you get for friending a whore.

Are we even sure Jesus is on Facebook? Do they have wireless up there or what? Also what if I don’t like this? Does it count against me? What’s the official position on these sort of questions?

But fuck, really, come on. Most of you are fucking up Facebook with a passion I cannot conjure the words to describe. I’m not even talking about those of you who change your cover photo to show a happy moment with your family or post status updates about a pregnancy.

That shit is honestly awesome and I love reading it.

I don’t mean the ones who go on about this or that current event. Hell, I’m guilty of that myself. And I actually love reading other’s thoughts and perspectives on different issues.

The ones fucking it up are those fuckers who play games, invite me to games and share fucking retarded photos.

“Hit like if you love Jesus. Scroll past is you want to burn in eternal hell fire …” Eleventy million of you fuckers took a second to hit fucking like.

Anyone who has ever hit like on a photo telling them to like it or else should be grounded from the Internet for a day. Myself included.

Also can you go ahead and like this blog? Here’s the link. If you don’t like it, no harm, no foul. I should warn you though — if you read this and don’t like it, the nail on your left pinky toe will become infected in May and that’s like just in time for sandal weather so, I’m just saying, I’d like this shit if I were you.

Then there are the games, the fucking Facebook games. Who the fuck plays these things? Don’t answer that question, I don’t really want to know.

I’ve been playing computer games since 1991 when in the first “Civilization” you could wake up the settlers on the transports and order them to irrigate the ocean. Yeah that “Civ 1.”

To every reader who didn’t get that, which I think is like all of them, I’m sorry.

This is where I quit. There isn’t a machine gun or diplomatic advisor anywhere. All I have is a purple pony and I’m pretty sure ponies are never purple.

Trust me though, had you played Sid Meyer’s “Civilization 1” in 1991, that joke killed.

The point is, I know computer games and I don’t get these games.

I’m going to pause right now (while I’m writing this, not while you’re reading this because how annoying would that be) and go try “FarmVille.”…………………………………………………

I tried it. I’m sure it posted 18 million messages on my Facebook feed about who knows what. Fuck, I don’t get it.

Thankfully you can block every Facebook game ever but the newest one.

But you know what pisses me off about Facebook the most? It’s that the alternative to Facebook is urfucked.com. Don’t even click that, it’s not a real link. But really, what is the alternative? Google+? Please, that shit sucks. Though to be fair, the absolutely hippest of my hip friends posts there and though I won’t name him, trust me the dude is cooler than cool and he’s there all day long. But he’s also on Facebook, so what the fuck?

There’s some no-shit original good stuff on Facebook too though. Original funny stuff which is what I’m normally looking for.

At this time last year I resolved to grow a beard because basically, as resolutions go, that was the easiest of my wife’s requests.

“All I have to do is not shave for a while? Crap this resolution is as good as done.”

The beard lasted like a month because I don’t like beards. That shit itches.

So, if anyone ever asks you, “Does that guy who writes the Had A few Beers blog like to grow a beard?” You can authoritatively answer, “No. He does not care for the feel of a beard.”

If you win any money in a bet situation with a question like that I’d like a cut, whatever you feel is right. I’m not greedy.

Anyway, HAFB is almost, but not quite, a year old. I do plan to do a first-year review but that’s a few weeks away.

So what I want to do today is introduce someone to you – my editor.

Yeah, I have an editor as of three or four posts back. I desperately needed one and am deeply, deeply thankful for her offer even though I have to pay her like $1 million Internet dollars an update.

I’ve known Fran for like, crap, 24 years. We were both Basic Journalism students at Ft. Benjamin Harrison, Ind. The key difference between us is — she paid attention to stuff like speeling, gramer, and sentense structure, while I spent most of my time thinking about boobs.

I asked Fran what image she’d like associated with her and she said, just use that crazy bus driver lady from South Park. Which fit perfectly in my mind.

Fran started Facebook stalking me (and by Facebook stalking I mean undressing me with her comments WHORE!) about the same time I started drunkenly doing Facebook updates. She’d swoop in and point out that “congradulations” was spelled “congratulations” and I’d read her comment, stew in a pot of “fuck her for being so right,” for five minutes and then move on.

Point is, she was correct, every time.

The bitch.

Then she graciously offered to edit and I desperately needed someone to edit. BNecause without edit thing lke sentense this way happen way.

See, I need an editor.

Fran, no shit, writes for a living. Which I, no shit, admire. She’s snarky on a level I cannot always comprehend. She once told me I made her “see red rats” and I don’t even know what that means. She’s promised to occasionally do a HAFBs posts herself and I cannot wait. She makes me laugh on a level I cannot explain. She also has a macaw*, because, and I quote, “I just want a bird that’s a friend.”

Don’t all of us, really?

We’re still working out the kinks, and I don’t mean kinks as in feather boas and gerbils, but rather how the hell do we do this? Do I email her a word document, load up the post in WordPress as a draft, send it to her via fax, what?

We will get there I’m sure, though.

Finally, I told Fran that I had a funny story to share about her when we were in training together. I was tanked during this discussion which helps explain why it wasn’t that funny at all, but here it goes.

We were in a student-break area when she recounted a time she was camping

Holy crap it has spots and its cute — aim for the head boys (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

with friends. She and a male friend were sitting in the camp, I’m unsure where the other friends were at the time, when a deer retardedly (this really had to be a retarded deer after all) walked into the camp and her male friend reflexively grabbed his rifle and shot it. She told me (or the group, I think it was the group) that she swooned when he did this and I experienced my first “bro-crush.” In my head I remember thinking, “Well, I’m not gay, but that dude’s awesome.”

That’s all I remember. See not that funny at all.

There are a lot of people that I want to talk about (in a good way) on this blog, but Fran gets first crack because she rocks and she has a macaw.

* Come to find out she does NOT have a macaw – even though she said she was getting one … filthy, filthy liar!

Everyone from Facebook remember this pic? It was literally last night so …

Hello and welcome to our hotel

This is the backstory…

This never happens to me. Really honey, it doesn’t. Maybe I was nervous? I mean there’s a lot of pressure here to perform!

Didn’t know how to write this but I think it needs to be written so let’s just do it in sequence. Also I’m working with a lot of hard-core military types at the moment so there will be a lot of phrases like, ‘in sequence’, ‘on order’, ‘move to grid square xyz’ and ‘can I borrow your exfoliating gel.’

Deal with it.

Story starts, time now.

Date: Yesterday morning.

Time: 0650

Situation: Linked up with head mofracky in charge, hereafter referred to as ‘the boss’ to conduct and execute road march to dining facility (DFAC). Conducted safety briefing which focused on how many bacon pieces were too many at DFAC and did she or did she not have a hot set of ‘sweater kittens’.

Side note to all military wives: Yes she did, but not as hot as yours.

Time: 0700

Arrived at DFAC and executed operation “fill our bellies with wholesome goodness.” Casualties included my dignity and most of the pork selection.

Okay enought of that.

The boss and I met early, went to have breakfast and on the way back to the office we stopped at a convenience store for coffee. When we stopped Dagmar called me so I didn’t go inside, the boss agreed to get me a coffee while I ‘took care of business’ with the frau.

Dagmar and I are moving so it’s a conversation a bit above, “yeah it sucks we’re apart” and has some detail to it, meaning I was really paying attention outside the store.

I was really paying attention until I looked inside and said the following to Dagmar, “I have to go, right now.”

I wish I had photos.

I’ll try and do his version justice but just know that when I turned around, while on the phone with my wife, I saw what appeared to be milk shooting my boss in the chest.

You can see why I had to hang up.

Mister former infantry went inside to get the coffees and discovered a group of Romanian soldiers milling around the coffee pots getting coffee for, in his words, everyone (for non military reading this he means coffee for LOTS OF PEOPLE) .

Undeterred by this obstacle and because he likes a bit of coffee with his cream he ‘plans out his attack’., he’ll fill his cup with creamer and sugar while the Romanians are monopolizing the coffee.

A good plan if I ever heard one.

Because I like my coffee like I like my ladies, bitter and black, I am unfamiliar with the mechanics of cream and liquid sugar dispensers. They are, to my limited understanding, simple devices meant to dispense to the customer cream and sugar in rationed doses. But the devil is always in the details because according to him, most all dispensers require that you push the handle in to dispense the product.

This one you had to pull.

Realizing this fact, my boss and former infantry officer if that adds context, pulled – with typical infantry officer retard strength, and ripped the nozzle off the dispenser shooting ‘cream’ everywhere.

Some other officer came to his aid as the Romanians were too stunned to react to the epic level of awesome they were witnessing and I was at this point hanging up on Dagmar so I could, well laugh, as coffee creamer shot everywhere. It quickly filled up the cup he was holding and the on the unsuspecting captain handed him. He quickly jammed the nozzle back into the device but by now the damage was done. He had committed a creamer atrocity that no amount of free napkins would fix. As we left, with our coffee, he told the cashier, I made a bit of a mess back there and as we exited the store two junior soldiers commented, “man someone had some fun here didn’t they!”

Yes, yes they did.

The rest of the day was boring work shit.

You’re reading this so I assume you realize I like beer. It’s in the name of the blog after all. What you do or do not know is that left to my own devices I’m very, very anal about what beer I drink. Currently I drink bit burger, go ahead, laugh it up.

Point is that a swarm of locus had descended upon the store, the same store that had been creamed, and purchased all the bit burger in stock except for the little retard kegs. The one in the photo, go ahead and look, I put one up for you to see. See it? Yeah who buys that thing besides retards like me and 21 year olds.

I had to DO math in the store, well almost math, stupid-guess math in fact. Will this fit in my hotel mini-fridge, if not am I fucked?

Answer yes it will and yes you would have been, had you been wrong.

I bring this up because nothing shout’s I have a drinking problem like ‘mini-keg’ purchased by a 40 something guy on a business trip. I mean really that last sentence should be in a recovering alcoholic’s email signature block.

Flimsy rationalization is about to occur but bear with me. We all like to relax at night, right? I know I do. A few times in Afghanistan I remember literally going back to my bed and literally having to lay down so I could get up a few hour later and hit work again, no time for anything, LITERALLY anything, beyond going to sleep.

When that happened I always felt cheated. I like to have a bit of time ‘off’

I have a small keg under my arm and am trying to get to my room, five cross-dressing germans are in my hallway, they’ve just offered me a shot. Let’s see where this goes …

mainly now so I can type this stuff but the point is the same, we all need a moment or two to unwind, part of mine is to have a beer and do this.

So the boss and I leave the office late, 9 p.m. late, and because he is constantly, epically, always and forever eating, we hit the restaurant/hotel. Slight problem, there is a birthday party going on. It’s a German hotel and restaurant and it’s packed, they seat us in some back room. Literally the entire restaurant is filled with what I come to understand are people celebrating a birthday, of someone.

In the special short-buss room the boss and I are fed and drink beers and eventually agree to part ways. I still have to fetch the “I’m a drunk keg” from my car’s trunk so as he leaves I go to get it, secure in the knowledge that I’ll soon be cocooned back here in my room, safe with beer.

I get the mini-keg from the car’s trunk once the boss is safely out of site. I’m going to have a quiet drink I think. I have a full beer in my hand and the keg under my arm and enter the hotel via the side door and run into five men dressed in drag.

I’m holding a mini-keg of beer and there are men dressed in drag in front of me.

I lose my shit. I see them and just start laughing. What would you do?

I asked them for a photo. Which they agreed too.

There are shots, here with men, dressed as chick. Okay, but only one for me.

Then the shots arrived. Literally right after I took the photo shots arrived. I mean what would you do? Okay you’d have gone to bed because you’re not an idiot like me.

I did the shot. Game on.

I should have gone to bed. I know this. I’m sorry. It ended with an accordion playing and me staring at some old ladies boobs in a traditional German, ‘here’s my cleavage’ shirt thing. That should have been hyphenated but I’m tired.

Moral of the story … there is no moral. If you meet cross dressing men in your hotel stairwell, do shots. That’s the moral.

This is literally how the night ended and I think there are lessons here to be learned. Kids, don’t follow strange men dressed as chicks into parties in hotel’s you aren’t familiar with.

I managed to survive another 365 days in a row without being hit by a car, beaten to death by a topless gang of over-endowed women or liver failure.

Yeah. It’s my birthday.

It might be a sign of age when you have to, for a moment at least, think about how old you are.

I literally had to pause for a moment and do, ‘math’.

Okay I was born in 1970, that’s an even number and it’s the year 2012 that’s also an even number, I was forty not that long ago …. Shit I’m what 42? No that’s not right, it’s always +1 to the year in October dipshit. You’re 43.

Fuck, I’m 43.

Which I guess is a deal, only it’s not. The last major milestone was being old enough to be the president and I have to admit that birthday goal just blew by me unnoticed. The last birthday I gave a crap about was the 21st because beer is good.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. We will get to birthday milestones in a moment.

As you will come to understand, I think birthday celebrations for anyone over the age of 21 are stupid but I have no issue with scamming the birthday system for personal gain.

I didn’t die, send boob shots!

To every well wisher, well every well wisher with boobs, I have a birthday request, I want a cleavage montage. Want to wish me a happy birthday? Then send me a photo of your cleavage. Nothing will make me happier than a photo of your cleavage.

It’s what I want.

It’s my ‘special day’ after all.

If you cared, you’d do it.

Make it happen.

And NO cheating for the love of god, I want photos of cleavage taken by you for this special day. No reposting some old shot you’ve had on Facebook for the last 15 months, I want fresh, new, exciting and fun cleavage taken for me because I didn’t die.

So cleavage shots are my special wish, picture me blowing out the candles on my birthday cake when I see them.

Do it now, I’ll wait.

Okay, are you back, did you post you’re cleavage shot?

Thanks.

I want to slap everyone in this photo. (Photo credit: Who Cares)

Now that we’re done with that can we talk, I mean honestly talk about birthdays? Mine, yours, that dude in the cube next to you, everyone’s birthday, can we talk about them? Lewis Black makes a great point in pointing out that when you’re eight birthdays are awesome because you get cool shit! He uses a wagon as an example and he’s right, to an eight-year-old a wagon is great, you put crap in it, you move it around and bamo, birthdays are cool.

At 16 you can drive and at 18 you can vote (but you don’t) and at 21 HELLO booze and then, what the fuck are we doing, really …

What. The. Fuck. Are. We. Doing?

After 21 you’re just not dying, really that’s all you’re doing. Everyone is aging, every moment of every day, why celebrate some arbitrary point that, in the grand scheme of things, is meaningless?

I don’t get it.

I have friends that hate their birthdays because they, ‘got older’. Here’s a stop of the clue-train friends, you got older reading this.

Happy getting older!

I’ve caught crap from people, for good reason, for making fun of Christmas and they’re right. I’m an asshole for making fun of Christmas because stripped to its bare bones Christmas is just a winter festival. It’s dark out a lot, the foods going away and ‘fuck’ everyone is depressed. Let’s all get together, be happy, eat a lot and give each other a ‘I hope you like it present’ because this is the worst part of winter and it’s about to get better, spring is coming …

Easter is a festival that celebrates planting really and let’s be honest Halloween was originally about harvesting, all good holiday ideas then and now.

Birthday’s I don’t get though, really I don’t. I appreciate the efforts friends and family go through to make it special, I really do. I just don’t understand, at a base level, the point of any of it. I was fully expected to live another year … I didn’t do anything extra-ordinary to get here, I just did. Hell if my bar tabs are any indication I did everything I could to prevent this from happening.

Shit I’m a failure in fact! I kid of course.

There is one thing about this ‘birth’, ‘day’ I’m proud of though. For the last three of my four birthdays I’m spending it at the Joint Multinational Readiness Center working indirectly with Soldiers. When I retired from the military there was this, ‘woosh’ moment that a lot of people go though I think. I’m not in uniform anymore, shit!

After so many years of wearing it, it’s kind of weird, or was to me at least. Suddenly you’re not really a part of the team anymore, sure they recognize you, they thank you but you’re no longer in their camp if that makes sense.

Fortunately right after my retirement Nick Sternberg hired me here at JMRC and I remember thinking, during my birthday, “if I have to work an 18-hour-day on my birthday, doing it helping soldiers is the best way there is to do it.”

I hope I have an 18 hour day tomorrow.

A boob/cleavage montage will totally make that 18-hour day … WORTH not dying!

In my efforts to be the Billy Carter of our combined families, between making jokes about swilling beers and boobies, I forgot something.

That something is the following. The wife has totally, and completely (I’m going to need some free legal back up here lawyer relatives) given me permission to plan a trip there this coming summer.

And here’s the deal. The department I work in for the U.S. Army is the, “Plans and Operations Division” and you can ignore everything after ‘and’.

Let’s plan this.

Darcy and Chad, and by Chad I mean Amanda, I’m looking at both of you. I’m pretty sure that fireman cousin of mine wants in but I can’t be bothered to look on Facebook for the name. It’s Cory or some crap.

Yeah, yeah, when are you coming, yeah, yeah where are your going to stay, and yeah, yeah let’s talk, The fun.

The fun details follow.

Did I just impress anyone with my bold use of bold? God I hope so.

The get together has to be at the Oliver farm. Those of you reading this that don’t know there’s an Oliver farm will be shocked to learn there’s an Oliver farm.

It’s at the end of the Oliver road, a major super-highway that runs about a mile into the hills of upstate New York. Really though it’s “Oliver road.”

I think the Gin Blossoms did a song about it once.

(Google), See here’s the lyrics,

“All of the pressure that I left behind
On Oliver Road
Fools in the rain if the sun gets through
Fire’s in the heaven of the eyes I knew
On Oliver Road”

Also fuck the Gin Blossoms cause that has nothing to do with Oliver Road … they’re tards. I think we all agree.

The re-union or union or the party, let’s just call it a party, is going to need a crap-top of beer because of well, me. Everyone else will have to bring their own. Okay, okay the wife just said I have to share. That means I have to have a, okay WE, have to have a crap ton of beer plus one.

I think we’ve all learned one lesson here. Lots of beer is needed.

Yeah great we ‘could’ mow grass or clear brush or we COULD tear around the area like madmen while swilling beers Chad! This combined with a Ferris wheel … well you pick. Also guns. Don’t forget guns.

I’m pretty sure my little brother agrees when I say there should be rented ATVs. Because it’s the farm and my Dad’s tractor aside, mud.

I think we should also have a ferris wheel with STRIPPERS! We can put it down on the flats, with music. Every seat on the ferris wheel has a stripper on it and when the music stops the stripper on the ground floor …

Hi, This is Dagmar, I’ve taken over the blog for a moment. Hope you’re all okay, and we will see you all soon! I’m also feeling much better and thanks for all the kind words when I was sick, it meant a lot to me. No Todd, there will be no Ferris Wheel of strippers. There won’t be a Ferris Wheel at all. Where do you get this stuff? Look I told you before to please stop saying bad words here. Can you stop saying the ‘F’ bomb? Thanks. No strippers on Ferris wheels on the Oliver farm and no more ‘F’ bombs okay? Thanks, Dagmar.

… and then when the fireworks go off we all totally hit the dynamite and rock this fucking party like

afua[ouda .arfau4q58d.

*)OD*S<>

Uoj(ukd<>

Okay sorry my head was just bashed into the keyboard and I’ve been informed that there will be no Ferris Wheel with or without strippers and that I should stop saying, ‘fuck’ so much.

Which is odd cause I thought fuck was a very funny fucking

A;uaplikjfdaiuzdpoiutaqcogf.

Okay. LOOK. I’ll stop saying fuck.

OUOPADUFIG*UP)C(*U(UD

Holy Moly! I’m cured. Lets’ have lots of potato salad, soft drinks and water balloon fights! Maybe the Pope can come, who knows?

And fishing, seriously someone needs to bring fishing gear. Cause I want to do some damned (Is THAT word okay?) fishing, there’s a trout that owes me somewhere in the little creek.

You all know which creek I mean.

This is Dagmar again, just wanted to add, Todd how would you know it’s trout, you’ve never fished a day in your life.

What the fuck

apfu8adoiud

*#*D(*SKCJJgaukd ,d

Okay … okay. Get off my blog woman.

Note: What fun that was. Look we are coming back there this summer Dad, Diana, Darcy, Chad, Amanda, Little Edward, and all other’s that care. I’d like to do this right (for once) and see all of you and have a grand time at the old Oliver Farm. Let’s do this. We can plan it, talk about it, work it here or via email. I care not, but let’s make this work. I want to see an Oliver Farm Day. Finally does anyone there know what the cost is to rent a Ferris wheel, don’t tell Dagmar.